


embers

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguity, Gen, Gore, Hurt Dean Winchester, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8291915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: It always feels the same, Dean thinks. Whether he’s dismembered or burned alive or impaled on an angel blade, when it gets close enough to the end he’s always freezing.





	

It always feels the same, Dean thinks. Whether he’s dismembered or burned alive or impaled on an angel blade, when it gets close enough to the end he’s always freezing. The bone-deep cold makes it hard to think, like he’s miles underwater, blinded and deafened and numb and terribly alone. That part – the confusion – might be the worst, because it means he’s never coherent enough to tell himself not to be afraid.

Dean shivers, listens distantly to his teeth rattling in his skull. He’s on his knees, legs folded under him awkwardly on the hard ground. The cold is leeching in through his jeans. He smells charring meat and wonders if it’s him, if this is how he’s going out. Burning like his mom, like he did so many times in the pit, to the soundtrack of his own screams and crackling flesh.

He struggles to lift his head and focus on his surroundings. There’s a pillar of flame dancing in front of him, illuminating the night like a beacon sparking up his hazy brain. A dark shape is moving in front of it, spitting tongues of fire at the swelling inferno. There’s an awful wailing in Dean’s head, shrill and grating like–

Right. They’re hunting. They’re in the woods hunting a wendigo and Sam has the flare gun. The same flare gun the wendigo knocked out of Dean’s hand minutes earlier, just before it stuck its ragged, six-inch claws into his guts and _tore_ sideways and the staggering pain of it sent him reeling somewhere far away.

Dean looks down at himself numbly, his mind still struggling to catch up. He’s got one arm tucked close against his stomach – out of instinct, he supposes, since he doesn’t remember putting it there. His arm is doing its best to keep his guts in place, but in the flickering firelight he can see his insides, purple-grey and slick and pushing out around his forearm and between his fingers. Intestines for sure, and maybe some stomach lining. His whole lower body is tacky and dripping dark blood, which is seeping through his fingers and pooling rapidly in the dirt.

Dean sways dangerously, suddenly woozy. He reaches out with his free arm, intending to ease himself down to the ground safely. The movement sends him further off balance and, _oh_ , there’s the pain again, deep and blistering sharp and so totalizing it shreds at the last pieces of himself Dean has been clinging to. He’s falling, spinning away fast, lost and sick and blind and–

“Hey.” The voice is close to his ear, low and panicked and distorted, and then Sam is there, solid and steady and _warm_ , supporting Dean’s neck and shoulders and helping him settle back against him. He gets Dean halfway across his lap and leaning into his chest while he reaches around to assess the damage. His hands slip around in Dean’s blood, fumble slick in his spilling guts. Dean shoves weakly at his arms, but Sam bats him away easily and presses something against Dean’s gaping abdomen _hard_.

Sam says “ _Shh_. You’re okay. Sorry. _Shh_.”

For the first time, Dean hears the wounded-animal noises he’s making. He bites the inside of his cheek hard to make himself shut up.

Sam is still talking, and Dean struggles to hang on to the staticky scraps of his voice that keep fading in and out: “…t’s okay… on, open your eyes… Dean!”

With great difficulty, Dean forces his eyes open and finds himself staring at the line of Sam’s jaw. He tilts his head back to look at Sam’s face, finds it charcoal-stained and streaked with tears that spark and glitter like embers in the dying firelight. He wills himself to reach up, brush the tears off Sam’s cheeks, but his arms are so _heavy_ and the most he can manage is a weak, fumbling grip on Sam’s shirtsleeve.

“Good, Dean.” Sam’s voice is shaking but his hands are steady, holding Dean’s guts in with what looks like his own jacket. “That’s good. Keep ‘em open now. Stay here with me.”

Sam starts whispering something, bends his head forward in deep concentration, or maybe prayer. The angle casts him in the light of the smouldering flames, and deep shadows stretch across the planes of his face. His eyes are closed and his lips are moving rapidly.

Dean suddenly pictures his brother, kneeling in a robe and collar with a rosary clutched between his fingers, delivering last rites. He laughs at the unbidden image, starts choking violently on his own blood.

_Per istam sanctan unctionem–_

One of Sam’s hands abandons its fruitless attempt at keeping Dean’s organs in place to cup his chin and tilt his face down, get him in a better position to breathe. All the warmth in Sam’s body can’t keep Dean from shivering with the cold as he chokes helplessly. Above Sam’s salt-streaked face, Dean can see the tops of the trees swaying dark and heavy in the night breeze. Sam feels terribly far away despite the rise and fall of his chest under Dean’s ear, the firmness of his hands on Dean’s ruined body.

As though from deep underground, he hears Sam say, “Castiel.”

_Et suam piissimam misericordiam–_

The earth around Dean shudders faintly and his ears pop with the change in air pressure. He sucks in half a wet, gasping breath and smells ozone like just after a thunderstorm, and the sweet green of spring rain.

Then Castiel is there, crouched over him and blocking out the worst of the cold. His face is grave, deep-set lines pulling at his mouth and forehead. His eyes are wide, and very blue. His lips move, and Dean senses the answering rumble of Sam’s voice.

Dean rolls his neck, angling his face up to get them both in his line of vision at once, like it might distract him from the the pool of his own blood and guts he’s drowning in, help him feel less afraid.

_Indulgeat tibi Dominus._

Together, Sam and Castiel are shadows in the low light of the fire, haloed in orange and gold by its last guttering flame.

**Author's Note:**

> For more self-indulgence and lack of plot, find me on tumblr [@withthedemonblood](http://withthedemonblood.tumblr.com/).


End file.
